This is the final article in a four part series which totally geeks out on cities.
A famous flâneur and me,
Sat down one day for tea,
He observed with a grin,
That the line is drawn thin,
Between cities which look and which see.
I knew this bloke in Sydney
Who bought a flat with his kidney
When its value decreased,
He fast made his peace,
With an odious thug called Zidney.
When we landed in Singapore,
We went on a swell free tour,
Which had as its theme,
The progressive dream,
Of a city that’s never a bore.
Paris is the pick of the oeuvre,
Notwithstanding the folks in the Louvre,
Who shoot video,
More useless than snow,
So the scholars can’t even manoeuvre.
In Ronchamp a dude called Corb,
Said towers are making me bored,
So he drew up a chapel,
As crisp as an apple,
Which left dear old Gropius floored.
In Belfort it would be a crime,
To bake a croissant less than sublime,
This sweet little town,
With its purple stone crown,
Seemed almost to float above time.
In Colmar there is this painting,
Which encourages faith and fainting,
Since its aura extends,
To the city’s dead ends,
It’s luck to have an R rating.
In Campione’s it’s hardly a treat,
To walk Mussolini’s beat,
Just avoid the casino,
Blingier than Reno,
And you’ll sleep in the gangster’s suite.
Milano has chewy air,
But what’s worse is the hardened stare,
Which you feel on your back,
Like a cyber attack,
When your clothes are not ready to wear.
In Venice they seem to ignore,
The twenty-first century’s roar,
They used to go fishin’,
But you can’t eat a Titian,
Or a billboard of Julianne Moore.